


Fangs, Fur, and Fleurs-de-Lis

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014), Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: Aramis' journey, Ethical Dilemmas, F/M, Historical AU, InseparablesFest2k14, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Multi, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut, Vampires, Werewolves, black and white and shades of grey, eventual OT3, lots of weaponry, not listing who is who for excitement purposes, the Church's influence over Aramis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis reined his horse in at the Vatican stables and with every step he took onto holy ground, the more his heart lightened, until all he heard was the soft song of Christ and all he saw were the small smiles of wayward nuns.</p><p>He anointed himself at the font, washing the memory of ebony and crimson from his fingers, and he palmed the cross that still hung around his neck.</p><p>It was a relief to fall into the confessional booth, and he refused to think of that as a learned response. "Forgive me, Father, for I have-"</p><p>"Sinned," he was interrupted tersely. "Yes, I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Father Almighty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Religious themes, Romance languages, and righteousness; the Aramis trinity.

> By too much attention to danger, we may fall victim to it.
> 
> \- _'The Fox and the Turkeys'_

Aramis stepped lightly into the aging building, stone dust swirling about his boots, his guns hanging heavily from his hips, the air taut with a whisper of  _traps_.

It was an ominous whisper, but an enticing one.

Far beneath, pews lined up in silent rows. Above him, the high beams of Notre Dame loomed, the shadows sparkling with the soft light from the Rose Window, the stylised stained glass weaving stories in coloured sand that told of great men fallen from God to their sins below.

"Beautiful," he said quietly, his lip quirking into a smile when a figure extricated itself from the darkness. " _Enchantée,_ Jacqueline _._ "

Eyes the colour of pitch blinked with slow seduction, a voice as smooth as needles through silk twined through the air, "You know very well that it's  _Jack,_ Van Helsing."

A muscle twitched irritably in Aramis' jaw. "Aramis," he corrected smoothly, and doffed his hat with a bow, the powder-blue feather just barely brushing the floor, inches from the large gap in the rafters that separated them.

She waited, she always did, this was a tune they had danced to for many a year, ever since Aramis had been sent by the Church to seek out the man responsible for so many murders.

A pleasant surprise, to say the least of their first encounter, and more pleasure to follow with every meeting.

Until now.

"Tired of London, did you?"

Jack sighed, exposing a long expanse of ivory skin as she tilted her head to the side, ebony curls tumbling across her collarbone. "You knew all my tricks, I needed new ones," she pouted, drawing a careful finger down her neck that Aramis followed with lazy focus.

"So you thought that the best way to attract my attention was cutting a swathe through Paris?"

Jack shifted slightly until she stood in the light, and Aramis saw with a drop in his gut that the tip of her finger was stained with red. "You came, didn't you?"

"You killed innocents, Jack," he said hoarsely, disappointment weighing heavily against the attraction – even if she did suck her finger and smile.

"You were chasing those twins around London," she whined, fisting a hand in her pale pink dress, leaving shadows in the creases, "I wanted you to myself."

Aramis wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder, the scant few memories he had left were filled with adrenaline, and even Aramis had taken a look at his life when he had woken up with a different person in his bed. "They weren't twins, just two sides of the same coin."

Still, at least Henrietta and Edwina had come along peacefully – after Aramis had roused himself from a weekend of peaked exhaustion.

"I can't let you do this, Jack," he murmured, and if it was tinged with regret, it was regret for what had once been, not the killer that stood in front of him. "Our time's run out."

Jack took a step, her toes curling over the rafter, and even now Aramis felt the urge to keep her away from the edge – but he had failed at that, already. "When has time meant anything to you," her voice dropped to a hiss, "Van Helsing."

Aramis felt the name slice across his skin, a brand and a damnation in one, and he clutched at the heavy golden cross about his neck, a memento of why he was here, of what he stood for.

Of who had taken him in when all had seemed lost.

He held out a hand over the distance, the deadly drop stretching between them. "Come with me, I'll see you safely to Rome."

She tutted, and only Aramis' keen eye detected the tensing of muscles beneath the pretty wisps of fabric. "When have I ever made things easy on you?"

Aramis closed his eyes, his hand still outstretched. "It's been five years."

Her sultry smile was borne of years of work, of a lifetime of charming her way into beds and killing her way out of them just for sport. It was a toothy smile, just on the seductive side of slightly insane. "And I, your greatest hunt."

"No, not my greatest," he murmured, forcing his fingers over the ache in his chest and the wound of his mind, and Jack's beautiful face twisted into one of hatred. "That one remains forever unfound."

The being that launched at him was not the woman he had once known, had once danced with over the rooftops of London, had so often let go with the promise of innocence. She sounded the same,  _tinkling laughter like falling razor blades;_ she smelled the same,  _blood red roses heavy with dew;_ she felt the same,  _porcelain skin slick with sweat and-_

Blood.

The shots ricocheted off of the cold stone, sending birds into flight from the eaves, and one to fall heavily into his arms.

"I will not be caged, Aramis," Jack whispered, words gurgling through the betrayal glinting in her glazing eyes.

"I did not want to cage you,  _ma cherie_." Aramis sank to the floor, one hand stroking through hair he had often wrapped around his wrist, struggling past a strange tightness in his throat. "The Church decreed it."

One pale, blood-stained hand reached for the cross that had fallen from his shirt, and Aramis' breath caught when the monster in his arms held it reverently without pain.

"Perhaps they were wrong."

The sun set beyond the houses, and the Rose Window darkened once more.

So, too, did Aramis.

* * *

 

Aramis reined his horse in at the Vatican stables and with every step he took onto holy ground, the more his heart lightened, until all he heard was the soft song of Christ and all he saw were the small smiles of wayward nuns.

He anointed himself at the font, washing the memory of ebony and crimson from his fingers, and he palmed the cross that still hung around his neck.

It was a relief to fall into the confessional booth, and he refused to think of that as a learned response.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have-"

"Sinned," he was interrupted tersely, "Yes, I know."

Aramis did not bother hiding the curve of his mouth as he looked past the lattice woodwork onto a lined face and frowning eyes. "Good evening, Cardinal."

A tired hiss from beyond, "For a man with death as his cloak, you are remarkably high-spirited."

Aramis' smile faltered for only a second, a second of weakness that whispered with the words,  _perhaps they were wrong._

"You have done God's work, my son," the Cardinal murmured, and Aramis took a misguided sort of strength from that, felt his faith return to his shoulders like comforting palms.

"As is my duty," Aramis intoned, the words practically written across his darkening soul in piercing light.

"Duty would have you doing it the first time, quietly, and completely."

Aramis shrugged, the leather of his gear scuffing against the wood as he tipped his head back. "Sometimes they escape me."

The Cardinal scoffed, either unknowing or uncaring to know the truth behind Aramis' occasional delays – the times it took Aramis a few days, months, or years of study to agree with the Church's will. "Your results are unquestionable, but your methods…"

Aramis sat up indignantly. "What's wrong with my methods?"

"When I give you an order to do something, I don't expect you to sleep with half of the population before you do so," the Cardinal said dryly, causing Aramis to stifle his snicker.

"I needed information," he explained with an innocent spread of his hands, and offered a silent prayer of thanks that his growing misgivings were not yet known.

"From the Queen of France?"

"Who knows more about their kingdom?"

"The King?"

Aramis' smile was sly. "I don't think God would approve, Monseigneur."

The Cardinal raised an eyebrow. "And since when have you cared about that?"

Aramis held a hand across his hollow heart and winced. "Blasphemy."

The Cardinal fixed him with an unimpressed glare, and Aramis grinned, even if it felt a little forced when he thought of the body he had held so carefully in his arms.

"You are straying, my son, do not think we don't see."

Aramis froze at that quiet warning, the weight of his weapons seeming suddenly heavier, the weight of his transgressions seeming more so. The false back of the booth slid open and, with a slow inhale, Aramis stepped out to be surveyed by one of the most powerful men in the world.

Aramis exhaled, bared to the bone, stripped of confidence just as he had been stripped of memories and left to the tender mercies of the Church.

Aramis' breath was a shuddering thing, a despairing hunger for knowledge of what he had lost, and the Church had promised him it. "I want to understand," he said finally, the words clawed from his lungs but only those had made it out.

 _Why,_ he wanted to ask, to demand of those he called master,  _why does it hurt when I kill those who are damned?_

The answer floated to him in the gurgled words that would forever haunt his thoughts, and Aramis looked into the ruthless eyes of a killer who had never spilled blood with his own lily-white hands.  _Perhaps they were wrong._

The Cardinal nodded after a long moment, gesturing for him to follow down the curving stone staircase. "Perhaps this will give you guidance."

Aramis grasped for the golden cross at his neck, thumb pressing painfully where Jack's had once been in a search for stability. "What am I to do?"

"The Devil's greatest work," the Cardinal said, clicking his fingers until a picture formed on the far wall. "Count Dracula _._ "

Aramis' hand fell from his chest, his head tilting as he homed in on the black and white slashes of light that formed a man's face, one so cold that Aramis drew back at the emptiness that seemed to rage from within.

His own raged back.

Dark hair slicked back from an aristocratic face, twisted lip curled into a sardonic smirk, and a great sense of  _entitlement_ seemed to emanate from the proud figure.

"I have heard stories," he murmured, gaze fixated on the truest demon he had yet to face, and his ravaged mind touched briefly on the thought of gentle Jack, whose greatest crimes had been numbered small before the Church had called her damned.

"There is no one else, Van Helsing, no one other than you who could do this." Aramis tore his attention away to raise an eyebrow, resisting the urge to make some sarcastic comment about being fodder,  _bait._  The Cardinal did not have the grace to look away. "You will do this."

Aramis slowly turned to the picture again, each blink seeming to find more interesting details about the world's most damned creature. "I do not have a choice."

It wasn't a question.

"No," the Cardinal answered simply, leaving Aramis to stare into the face of a familiar evil, his hand once again finding his cross.

And this time, there would be no reverence in the holding, only singed flesh and screams.

_Perhaps they were wrong._

"Aramis," a voice called excitedly, and Aramis felt his first genuine smile in a long, long time, drawing him out of the shadows and into the light once more.

"D'Artagnan," he replied fondly, ruffling the boy's hair as he fell into step beside him. "You finally made it out of the seminary."

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose, looking younger than even his few years already made him. "There's too much  _learning_ to do, I just want to shoot things."

"It is the learning  _not_ to shoot things that makes you," Aramis circled his wrist in an effort to find the right words, "whatever I am."

"A monster hunter?" D'Artagnan replied naively. Aramis winced, something within him finding that term inherently wrong, but d'Artagnan was already nodding slowly. "I guess, it just seems to take all the glory away from being a legend though."

Aramis gave a wry laugh, "It's an apprenticeship, you're hardly a legend quite yet, my boy."

" _Yet,_ " d'Artagnan repeated confidently, "I just need my big heroic leap."

Aramis hefted the bag he would need to take with him and, feeling the weight of it, passed it onto d'Artagnan. "You have it, you're coming with me."

D'Artagnan's eyes shot to his, his feet tripping over themselves as he clutched anxiously for Aramis' arm, almost dropping the extensive amount of weaponry. "What? No, I'm not ready."

Aramis rolled his eyes, throwing more guns and ammo the boy's way, who caught them absent-mindedly. "You just said you wanted your chance to be a hero."

"Yes, in a few years' time," d'Artagnan explained with painstaking slowness, as if Aramis was an idiot, "maybe a small demon, a wraith, perhaps?"

"Those aren't big."

"Screw you, they're big enough!" D'Artagnan started to pale. "I don't want to go to Romania!"

"Time to make your choice, d'Artagnan," Aramis hooked the boy around the shoulders, offering him the encouraging smile someone had once given him before his first journey into the dark. "It is time to leap."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunt me down on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	2. Creator of Heaven and Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy, the second chapter is done and the whole fic has been drafted! Rejoice with me! It turned out that what I needed was a whole heap of religious themes and some Romanian (you know I love my languages).

> Men of evil reputation, when they perform a good deed, fail to get credit for it.
> 
> \- _'The Wolf and the Horse'_

Aramis took in a deep breath that stung pleasantly, his feet braced on the worn wood as he raised his face to a star-studded sky. He considered himself fortunate in this exact moment, weapons comfortable in his hands, his goal set in stone – to rid a demon from God's green earth.

Life was beautiful, and Aramis savoured it like those few precious moments of silence before the storm.

He was dragged rather unceremoniously out of his reverie by the sound of retching.

Aramis raised his brows at the dark head flung over the ship's railing, catching sight of a pale face in the moonlight as they crested a wave.

"Enjoying yourself,  _mon fils_?"

A babble of swear words interspersed with pitiful whines was his answer, and Aramis chuckled, rubbing comforting circles into the boy's back until he breathed easier.

No sooner than two steps onto the ship had d'Artagnan started to quake, his gaze darting back to land as if he would throw himself towards it in his desperate attempts to get off of the water.

"This is torture," d'Artagnan moaned, leaning heavily into Aramis' touch as if it were his anchor.

"This is travelling," Aramis corrected, and passed the boy his hip flask, warm with wine.

"I like horses, I like  _land_." D'Artagnan choked on his draught, shaky hand dragging across his slightly green mouth.

Aramis was quite fond of the sea – he always had liked a tempestuous mistress – and patted the boy's shoulder supportively. "We must seek the demons out."

"They should come to us," d'Artagnan mumbled mutinously, and Aramis laughed in surprise.

"You would truly rather wake in the morning to find a harpy at the foot of your bed, a wraith in your closet?"

D'Artagnan sent him a scathing look, but before he could tease him some more, Aramis felt his gaze drawn to the horizon. A tightening began in his chest, tiny claws that pricked the flesh of his heart, tiny shadows that pierced the soul of it.

"We are set on a path, d'Artagnan, and we must follow it, it matters neither where the journey ends nor what perils await us." Aramis straightened, feeling warmth on his shoulder blades but a chill on his ribs. "Information as well as salvation lies ahead."

D'Artagnan's sigh wracked his slim shoulders, and as Aramis turned away to fetch their things, he heard a soft, "The two are not the same."

Aramis looked over his shoulder, prepared to alleviate the boy's conscience, but what he saw disturbed him. D'Artagnan hefted a pistol bedecked in religious symbols, and where the boy's face was lit by the moon, his hands lay in darkness.

"No," Aramis murmured, struck by the innocence in fingers that carefully turned the weapon over, "I suppose they are not." Aramis reached out, taking the pistol and hooking it into his belt – it felt heavier than usual, as if he were accepting a larger weight in order to keep d'Artagnan light. "We are weapons, we keep the world safe."

D'Artagnan nibbled his lip, a frown pulling on his normally clear brow. "Who keeps us safe, Aramis?"

Aramis could not answer, could not because he still remembered the way he had felt beneath the Cardinal's gaze, naked and alone in a dark world of sin.

Yes, the Church had taken him in, but to what? Not to their heart, not to the warm, beating, life-giving organ within, but kept him grasped in their hands, cold and unfeeling, like a pistol.

Aramis knew that he was not protected, he was the protector, and he took pride in that.

And yet, it was that pride that kept him lonely in those dark shadows cast by the Church's light. Shadows that grew ever longer the further away they travelled, and Aramis fancied he felt a strange sense of freedom – were it not for the collar about his neck.

No, freedom was not meant for creatures such as he, just as it was not for those he hunted.

Their arrival had not been quiet, the yells of sailors and the rummaging of luggage as d'Artagnan practically fell to kiss the ground. Aramis smiled, shouldering most of their things as the boy shuddered gratefully.

"Come, d'Artagnan, we must…" he trailed off, neck prickling, his attention darting to the long trees beside the dock, a veritable wall that seemed impassable and full of eyes.

The claws began to tighten around his heart, bereft of light and susceptible to shadows, so far were they from the things they knew.

And yet, he felt he knew this, too.

"Aramis?"

Aramis shook his head, as if warding the evil away, his hand coming to the cross still hanging heavily around his neck, and he looked innocence in the eye.

"I should not have brought you," Aramis whispered, something clenching at his throat, and he knew not whether it was fear of the darkness, or desire of it.

D'Artagnan, immune to the tendrils that twined along Aramis' skin, scoffed, and pulled his share of the bags from Aramis' deadening shoulders. "I'm leaping." D'Artagnan smiled, such contrast to the tight line of Aramis' mouth. "We'll keep each other safe."

Aramis almost stumbled from the friendly bump on his arm, so used to working alone with only faint memories of camaraderie, but it managed to raise a smile from his lips and it was that which finally pushed the darkness away. "Yes, we will, though I pray we shall not need to."

"Amen," d'Artagnan murmured, before companionable silence fell between them.

As it were in legend, the streets were deserted, the sailors having retreated to below decks until the sun rose. Probably wise, considering the intense prickling on the back of Aramis' neck.

"We are being watched," Aramis said idly, smiling confidently at the boy's nervous glance, far more at home with this sort of unwelcome. "Townspeople, nothing more."

"Why don't they invite us in?"

Aramis paused in the town's centre, the soft sloshing of the well and the swift breeze the only sounds to disturb the night "Nightfall is not a time these people wish to be out, d'Artagnan." A piercing cry split the relative silence, and he brought his hand heavily onto the boy's arm. "And neither should we, we need an inn."

Ushering the boy towards the likeliest looking building – the swinging sign and faint strips of candlelight from within were a good indication – Aramis knocked twice on the surprisingly thick wooden door. It was a porthole that opened first, narrowed eyes their greeting.

Pretty eyes, though, blue, framed by inky lashes.

Aramis doffed his hat, his wide smile making up for d'Artagnan's fidgeting. " _Bună seara_ , we seek refuge for the night."

" _Da,_ a likely story," a feminine voice answered, but it wasn't as dripping with distrust as Aramis had expected. "And I suppose the weapons at your waist are simply… decoration?"

Aramis replaced his hat. "Precisely."

The bolthole slammed shut, and with the creaking of what sounded like a hundred locks and some very large hinges, the door creeped open to reveal a woman dressed in fighting leathers, her pistol cocked at Aramis' midsection. "I don't see why, you're pretty enough, already."

Aramis ignored the dark spot of the gun that would speak his death, and simply smiled. " _Mulţumesc_ , Madame—ah, Doamna is too kind."

D'Artagnan's withering look almost prompted Aramis to laugh, but he managed to stifle it in time for the woman to lower her weapon, her gaze barely scraping d'Artagnan's form before she stepped away from the door.

Torn between pushing d'Artagnan in ahead of him or not, Aramis entered first, glad that he did when that missing distrust came in from all corners of the room. About a dozen women and twice that many men sat or stood in varying levels of suspicion.

It was only when the heel of his boot clicked onto the wooden floor that they all relaxed, and Aramis made way to raise a confused eyebrow at d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan came in so close that he nudged Aramis' arm as he whispered, "They believe that vampires can only enter if directly invited."

"An awfully polite creature," Aramis murmured insouciantly, "I have no idea why the Cardinal was so concerned."

"Probably the teeth," d'Artagnan answered, but his attention was already distracted by a bubbling pot of stew, and he didn't even notice that the only three women not looking at Aramis, were staring dotingly at him.

In fact, it took ten minutes for the boy to realise, and that only because his stomach was full, and possibly because of the delicate hand that suddenly stroked through his dark hair, causing him to sit ram-rod straight and spill his drink.

Cheeks flushing, naïve wide eyes took in the decidedly welcome air of the room, before lighting on the woman half in Aramis' lap, and the other one toying with Aramis' beard.

D'Artagnan slowly settled again, trying his best to ignore the adoring noises from behind him – his hair was stuck up all which ways. "Is it always like this?"

Aramis smiled, snapping his teeth playfully at the finger that strayed too close to his lips. "Pretty much."

"They don't talk about this in the seminary," d'Artagnan muttered, and Aramis choked on his wine as laughter bubbled through him. It was an elation that happened rarely, these days.

"A good thing, too, or all of the brothers would be out here." D'Artagnan gave him a very significant look, one that said,  _perhaps that would be better_. Aramis cleared his throat uncomfortably, turning briefly to rub his nose along a fragile jaw. "Whilst you were gorging like a piglet in a trough, I was able to procure us some lodgings."

"Do they know about Dracula?"

Aramis rolled his eyes when the room froze, nearly everyone sketching the sign of the cross on their chests, mumbled prayers flaring the fires.

"Yes," he gritted out, "they do, which is why I needn't dip into our funds for this journey. Our gracious host has promised us board as long as we complete our holy mission."

Said host appeared, a thin man with a perpetual sneer, dressed not in the leathers of the woman at the door, but silk fabrics, more the clothes a courtier would wear.

"I trust your  _pet_ knows the rules?"

Aramis kicked d'Artagnan under the table when the boy riled, and aimed a bland smile the innkeep's way. "Yes, Monsieur Bonacieux, the windows will remain locked."

The man sniffed, as if Aramis was something foul he had found on his boot, and looked over his shoulder to follow d'Artagnan's enraptured gaze. Bonacieux's attention returned in a hiss of anger. "Curfew extends to boys, too, boys who should know their place!  _Stai, puţoi!_ "

Aramis stood abruptly, carefully sliding the woman off of his lap as he forced Bonacieux's focus onto him. "Do not address my apprentice as such, he has vanquished far greater foes than you," he said quietly, holding out a palm when d'Artagnan would have stood, too. "We will cause no trouble, you have my word."

"The word of a what, a bounty hunter, a killer, a  _pizdar_? I see no reason why I should harbour you—"

"—Because we are tired of hiding," a clear voice interrupted, and from the direction that d'Artagnan had been caught staring, the woman from the door approached. This close, Aramis could see how the leathers did not quite fit, as if they were not made for her, but she gripped the pistol with determination, if not some skill. "We are dictated to by the daylight, until we are prisoners in our own homes."

There was something truly exhausted in that last, plaintive statement, and it prompted Bonacieux's lip to twitch into a sneer. "Enough, Constance."

To Aramis' surprise, Constance backed down, her head falling on a tired sigh, but then steely blue eyes met his. "Cause your trouble, Domn Hunter, but let your instincts tell you where to find it."

Another hissed word from Bonacieux and then everyone began to rise from their chairs, departing the safety of the inn in groups of no less than four, leaving Aramis to sink back into his seat with a thoughtful frown.

"What do your instincts tell you, d'Artagnan?"

Eyes far older than their owner met his, and a maturity he had not heard before entered d'Artagnan's voice, "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said—"

"—let there be light; and there was light," Aramis finished, mildly entranced by the boy's rhythmic recitation.

"And it was good." D'Artagnan looked grimly around the emptying room. "These people no longer see the light, Aramis. Some of them," the boy's gaze lingered on Constance, "haven't seen it in a very long time."

"It is a hard thing to remember when its absence is so shocking." At least, it  _should_ have been shocking, but aside from the pull at his neck, Aramis felt no different from normal, merely…  _eager_ , as if he stood on a precipice.

"Will killing Dracula bring the light back to these people?"

Aramis hesitated at that hopeful question. "It will bring them some comfort." A bit of the boy's innocence seemed to drift into the looming night, and Aramis sighed, "Get some rest, d'Artagnan."

The boy nodded, trudging ahead of him. "What about you?"

"I do not think I have ever needed to sleep." Secure in their rooms, Aramis slid a dagger into his belt, and another along his forearm, reassured by their weights even as they damned him. "I dream, certainly, but only as a means to unlocking my memories."

D'Artagnan's yawn almost eclipsed his face, but then Aramis' fond smile dropped. "So you can remember everything about your life from the past seven years, but nothing before that?"

"This is not bedtime story material, d'Artagnan." A small scowl was aimed his way, but it just made the boy look even younger and Aramis let out a huff of a laugh. "Flashes, snatches, a strain of a song. I don't know the timings, they are each as obscure as the others."

"The most recent thing?"

Aramis sat on the other bed and tipped his head back, his hat falling neatly over his face as he let his mind wander. "Horses," he said finally, "gunpowder, a palace of gold, filled with daylight." His heart told him it was heaven, though he knew not why.

"That's not very specific," d'Artagnan complained, snuggling deeper into his blanket.

Aramis flicked the brim of his hat up and snorted when he saw d'Artagnan grinning cheekily.

" _Vaurien_ , enjoy your rest. I go to chase the dawn, to see whether it will shed any light on what I thought was following us in the woods."

"Oh, okay," d'Artagnan said sleepily, before bolting upright and whispering furiously, "You thought  _what_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, d'Art, but you make an amazing Carl.
> 
> I think I learn more from writing through research than I ever did at school. However, I have questions for you. As usual, would you like translations provided in the dialogue, notes, or at all? Also, I'm always looking for insight, have an interesting phrase in Romanian or some scripture that Aramis would like? Let me know in a comment or on my [Tumblr.](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Crucified, Died, and Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can never talk about this mythic beastie without putting on a Scottish accent and saying with the wondering tones that only a time-traveller can achieve, "A werewolf?"

> He who stops to parley with temptation, will be very likely to yield.
> 
> \- _'The Dog and his Master's Dinner'_

Dawn was already streaking the sky in pink and purple ribbons before Aramis had any indication of movement in the woods, and it was only noticing someone's great effort to  _not_ leave tracks that he realised he was being followed, in a circle, for an hour.

Aramis stopped, a weary laugh bursting through his lips, and he wondered what it was about the daylight that made the situation feel less predatory. Night had breathed its last and with it, so had its denizens, leaving a sense of simple expectancy, but nothing more.

His own undoing, perhaps, because although he felt safer, he also felt a little bored, as if the eager precipice that had called to him all night had quietened, and with it, so had his adrenaline.

"And God divided the light from the darkness," he murmured, but nobody answered.

Aramis turned around, peering through the leaves to see if he could catch a glimpse of his follower. Perhaps they didn't approach because they thought he was a poacher, or a soldier. As Constance had pointed out the night before, his array of weapons didn't exactly allude to peacekeeping.

" _Sunt singur_ ," he called to the trees, ones that continued to twitter with wildlife, as if it were he that was trespassing, and his follower was simply a mainstay of the forest. "I'm alone, if that's what's worrying you."

Aramis spun on his heel when the brush parted behind him,  _ahead_ of where he had been about to walk, and the sudden awareness of being herded to the edge of his eager precipice reasserted itself.

Anticipation was the taut silence before an orchestra began its piece.

If Aramis had expected a fellow hunter – one of the animal variety, and not of monsters – he was surprised by what stepped lightly into the clearing.

It was a man, taller than Aramis, and broader in the shoulder, hair clipped short to reveal a gold band in one ear, his skin the colour of the coffee beans the Cardinal hoarded so greedily. They offered no greeting, except for an enquiring lift of an eyebrow, the scar snaking through it lending a bizarrely  _battle-ready_ element to someone who was dressed in a casual shirt and breeches, boots worn but comfortable.

Attraction in its most earthly form struck a clear note deep within Aramis' soul, and the music of it hummed pleasantly under his skin.

" _Mă numesc_  Aramis."

A grin was Aramis' answer, a blindingly bright one which immediately put him at ease, and the voice that spilled forth reminded him inexplicably of his Heaven, of thundering hooves and wicked laughter. "Your Romanian's better'n mine, I'll give you that." Aramis visibly reeled in surprise, and the man's grin widened. "Italian?"

"As of late, yes," Aramis murmured, trying to find a place in the town for a man who was a better tracker than he. "Yourself?"

"All over; Romanian, I guess.  _As of late_ ," he teased, and Aramis found himself smiling – even more so at the worst Romanian accent he had ever heard. " _Mă numesc_ Porthos, by the way."

" _Bună dimineaţa_."

"Now you're just showin' off."

Aramis shrugged, not bothering to deny it, especially when it netted him another one of those blinding grins, one that seemed to add more musical notes to the attraction, until a crescendo strummed in Aramis' fingertips.

Porthos held himself steady, ever so sure of himself. A rarity these days, but there was no arrogance in it – and that was rarer still.

It was… Aramis took a breath, noting the way Porthos watched Aramis' hand settle absent-mindedly on his gun.

It was _refreshing_ , to be looked at as if you made sense, as if Aramis wasn't just a discordant note on a busy page, but a tightly-strung violin in counterpoint with Porthos' deep cello.

Porthos carried no open weapons, but Aramis noticed the flat of a blade when his shirt pulled tight against an outline of pure muscle, the same muscle that so tightly packed Porthos' body. There was strength evident even without the lazy smile and relaxed stance, as if the world was merely his playpen and Aramis a new toy he might gnaw on.

A not entirely unwelcome image.

Aramis had no doubt that somebody built like Porthos could defend themselves, but still, there were creatures beyond normal men, here.

"You do not fear what walks these woods?"

"With hunters like you around?" Aramis took what was definitely an indulgent bit of flirting in his stride, tapping the brim of his hat in gentlemanly acknowledgement, when all he wanted to do was test Porthos' muscles with his teeth. As if he knew, Porthos laughed, a deep, bass rumble that seemed to reverberate within Aramis' chest. "Nah, I'm well outta the way by the time the moon's out. You should be, too, there's all sorts of things out 'ere."

Curiosity piqued and duty such a burden, Aramis promised himself at least one drink with the man when this was all over. "Oh, like what?"

A flash of teeth as Porthos inclined his head at the town. "Ask tonight at the inn, tales best saved for 'round the fire, when the night's noises sound like unearthly howls."

Aramis leaned into a hip at Porthos' deliberately mysterious tone. "And what are they really?"

Porthos' shrugged, a heaving of muscle that suggested far more confidence than the rest of the townspeople showed. "Earthly howls, nothin' unnatural." Porthos frowned then, his gaze an intensity on Aramis' chest, where his shirt lay open and his cross exposed. "Ain't you a religious man? Why're you askin' after beasties?"

Aramis hoped his smile was cryptic, pleased with the fact that it was  _Van Helsing_ which had gained the reputation, and not his own name. "I'm chasing those tales, be they true or false."

Porthos' frown lingered for a bit longer, and then it disappeared, as if forcibly wiped away. "You're huntin' shadows? Best be careful, they bite."

Aramis allowed himself a smile, his thumb rubbing a comforting stripe down a gun barrel, and he glanced at the floor before answering. "So do I."

Porthos rolled back on his heels, his nod surprised but pleased. "Good, 'ate to think you'd been scared off."

"I've faced worse things than ghost stories."

"Yeah? It's not the stories you gotta worry about, though, is it?"

"No, it's the truth behind the myth," he agreed thoughtfully, and if Porthos' tune had been a pleasant-sounding rumble before, now it spiked to a descant, a hidden depth revealed of the man who saw Aramis' weapons and didn't question them.

In fact, Porthos eyed them appreciatively, and Aramis thought he could almost hear the question on the tip of Porthos' tongue.

_Yeah, but are you any good?_

"Anyway, gotta be off, rumour 'as it there's a tasty little thing runnin' around. I wanna get my teeth into it."

Aramis stepped aside as Porthos moved past, surprisingly quiet for a man of such bulk, like a tiger. "Good hunting."

As Aramis watched him melt into the trees, Porthos tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Yeah, you too."

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan was waiting for him on the outskirts of the town when he returned later that day, the sun setting early in this part of the world.

"Where have you been? They went crazy when I said you've been hunting since last night."

Aramis frowned at the boy as he passed copious bags of leaf litter and broken branches, all little things that he thought might lead him to his quarry. "Why did you tell them that?"

D'Artagnan turned his nose up at what Aramis was fairly certain was some dung, and hissed, "What was I meant to say, that you were taking an extra-long bath, this morning?!"

The last was a furious whisper as they entered the inn proper, and immediately Aramis was besieged by questions, the townspeople all having gathered as if prepared to go to war.

"Are you injured?"

"Did you see it?"

Aramis held his hands up in confusion. "See what? I saw nothing 'til this morning."

The townspeople muttered uneasily amongst themselves for a moment, and although Aramis kept an eye out for Porthos, he didn't see him.

A pity, really, he could do with that drink after a day of useless searching.

Finally, Constance stepped forward, her fingers settling and resettling on her pistol. "Those woods belong to the beast."

Aramis scoffed, one hand placed contemptuously over his chest. "I think I could handle myself against one animal—"

A palm cracked against his cheek, leaving Aramis blinking back stars as he tried to focus on d'Artagnan's suddenly lovesick expression. " _Fool_ ," Constance whispered, eyes ablaze with anger, "no one can take down the beast."

"It's taller than a man."

"And twice as wide!"

Aramis pushed his tongue against his teeth and rubbed the heated handprint gingerly – it wasn't the first time he had been slapped, but it was normally for better reasons. "Have you not tried killing it?"

Constance didn't look the least bit apologetic, and although Aramis rather understood d'Artagnan's newfound love for passion, he did think it a little over-appreciative considering that Aramis was fairly certain Constance had knocked a tooth loose. "Of course we have, but it's no mere beast. It's a werewolf."

"Oh, well if it's a werewolf, you'll need silver bullets," d'Artagnan pointed out helpfully, and quailed under Constance's glare.

"Do you think we don't know that? We used what silver we had in our trap, it only wounded him."

D'Artagnan's brow furrowed in deep thought. "Have you tried shooting it in the head?"

D'Artagnan scampered backwards until he was against the wall when Constance approached him, her nose almost pushing angrily at his. "Next time it shows up, perhaps  _you_ can do it,  _da?_ "

"No, thank you," d'Artagnan squeaked, and Aramis hid his smile when Constance stalked off and the crowd continued their murmuring. It took a moment for the boy's gaze to meet Aramis', and when it did, it was nervous. "We weren't told about a werewolf."

Aramis hummed a quiet agreement. "As if a vampire isn't enough."

"Do you think they're working together?"

"From what I understand, werewolves are controlled by the moon – they become slobbering beasts."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Controlled, yes, but not just by the moon."

Aramis quirked a brow. "Dracula could be its master? That makes our job a  _lot_ harder." Aramis raised his voice to the room, "You mentioned a trap?"

Everyone's attention turned to a hulking man in the corner, tall and broad, with a beard so shaggy it could have housed a flock of birds. "Victor," he said by way of introduction. "I am the blacksmith, once I made swords, now I make horseshoes, sometimes I make traps."

Victor sat down again, apparently satisfied with his involvement, so Constance added from her perch on the bar, "We lured the beast in."

"With what?"

"Everything." Constance sighed when the room's occupants started to shuffle uncomfortably. "We didn't know what would draw it, so we tried everything. Meat, raw, cooked, alive."

Aramis frowned, a sense of misgiving making him uneasy. "What else?"

A woman's shaky, disturbed cry came from beside Victor. "It was killing us, how long before we all died?"

"Hush, Silvia."

"What else?" Aramis thundered, but nobody would meet his eye.

Except for the woman, Silvia, who looked as if she had seen more wars even than Aramis – and Aramis couldn't remember most of them. "Petru, my husband, he took my baby. He—he thought the beast would want  _something fresh._ "

Aramis' throat clenched against the bile that squirted from his stomach. His palm clasped tightly on d'Artagnan's shoulder for something familiar, and the boy leaned heavily into him, his face one of horror. "Where is the child now?"

"Safe," Constance said, her gaze shamed but still steely. "We removed her, the beast was caught before… anything happened."

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief, but fury was still jangling against his senses. "You let this take place?"

"We didn't know," Constance insisted, her anger enough of a truthteller. "That  _lăbar_ , Petru, stole her away before we had even realised she was there."

"Her cries brought the beast," Victor added, his shrug too callous. "It ran straight into the trap."

Aramis squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder until he yelped, and after muttering an apology to mask his disgust with the world, he could carry on. "And then?"

Constance did look apologetic now, but she firmed, as she had to, lest life grow too unbearable. "We shot it, repeatedly, with everything we had, melted down silver in some cases. When it ceased its thrashing, we buried it."

"The next morning, gone." Victor made a vanishing motion with his hands.

Aramis nibbled his cheek, alarmed at the amount of thought that had gone into the trap – even more alarmed at how the beast had escaped it. "Did it come back for revenge?"

"Not for a while, a week maybe. Then it kill my brother." Aramis' eyes widened, and Victor nodded. "Petru."

Everyone, including Aramis, made the sign of the cross on their chests, to ease the departed their passing, and Aramis at the terrifying thought that the creature could  _think,_ could reason.

Perhaps, though, that was not a bad thing. If something could reason, it could be saved.

"Has it a name?"

Even d'Artagnan stared at him as if he were crazy, but it was Bonacieux who sneered, "It's an animal, it has no name."

"It's a demon," Constance clarified, watching him reproachfully, as if he had lessened in her eyes for wanting frivolous details.

"Even demons have names." And names held power over a person, they were important.

Constance pursed her lips, clearly disconcerted by his thinking, as if she knew his thoughts were not quite as hell-bent on destruction as theirs were, but she gave him something – to what end, he didn't know. "I don't know of a name, but they say he wanders the day as a man, as plain as you or I."

D'Artagnan nodded, and the people of the town regarded him in a new light, one of a knowledge-bearer, when he said, "That's true, without the moonlight he could look like anyone."

Their murmurs of agreement did not quite cover the sound of an unearthly howl, and in Aramis' mind's eye, he saw a man who moved with the smooth grace of a bigger, stronger beast.

And Aramis knew its name.

"I bid you good night, d'Artagnan." Aramis placed his hat on his head. "I go hunting."

D'Artagnan peered at him in amazement, thumb jerking at a fresh pot of stew in the corner. "Now, after what you just heard?"

Aramis opened the door, and with it, the night came flooding in, soft sounds and sweet smells; his precipice was calling. "Now,  _mon fils_ , now I know what I'm looking for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked the fable before I realised the title, and now I love it.  
> As always, find me on [Tumblr!](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)


	4. Risen Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably worth warning that the religious references from here on out edge towards the extreme, but only insofar that the film and a little creative licence takes it. A character's views do not necessarily reflect the writer's and so on and such forth. This is simply the way the boys react to the events around them, and I am but their humble servant.

> That which we are anxious to find, we are sometimes even more anxious to escape from, when we have succeeded in finding it.
> 
> \- _'The Herdsman and the Lost Bull'_

It was long past midnight by the time Aramis came across the clearing from before, the silence noisy with the chirp of crickets and the soft, steady rasp of Aramis' breathing. It hitched only when a beam of moonlight pierced through the canopy.

It glittered, turning the dewy leaves into diamonds, and if the tales were to be believed, it would turn a man into a beast.

Aramis knew that there was truth behind that tale, he just had to find it.

Off in the distance, a howl sounded, soon joined by others, and the lilting, melancholy music of their song was a sooth to Aramis' nerves.

Simple wolves were not what he hunted, this night.

Aramis knew the moment that he was being followed, because this time, the darkness was like a blanket, and there was a hand reaching through it to grasp the back of his neck in a tight, hot, grip.

Without turning, but with his fingers tingling until they curved over his guns, he called, " _Bună suena_."

A laugh, that same rumbling of hooves, and then a shadow split from the trees ahead of him. "There you go, showin' off again."

Porthos' voice should not have put Aramis inexplicably at ease, especially not when Aramis had to squint into the puddles of night, Porthos' smile a healthy distance from the scant shafts of moonlight.

Aramis stepped into one, just to feel the kiss of a star-studded breeze, and because, for whatever reasons, he did not fear the man in front of him, nor the beast within, kept caged only by shadows. No, the music of their meeting was a lightly sprung piece, flighty and flirtatious.

Aramis wanted answers and he knew how to be charming.

He had been charming monsters the world over, and he had seen more evil in the eyes beneath a crown than he had in those belonging to a bloodied bird that had lain broken in his arms.

Aramis had faith, and it was in redemption.

"Did you find your tasty little thing?"

Porthos' grin was delectable in its mischief. "I did, as it 'appens, an' tasty it was, too." Aramis smiled as one particular note pulsed with heat, and it felt as the strings of his soul were played over with skilled, blunt fingers.

"I asked after your tale at the inn, as you suggested."

Porthos raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, the sleeves of his shirt putting up a fight against his muscles. " _My_ tale?"

Aramis raised a careless finger to his lips. "Ah, my apologies, slip of the tongue."

A low, pleased noise. "I bet."

Aramis hadn't meant to smile, nor to burn ever so pleasantly under that dark-eyed gaze, but then he had never before been sought out by a creature he was meant to be hunting. "The most extraordinary thing, the townsfolk have termed it a resurrection, the grave left empty after so many days."

Porthos snorted, as if to say that the people of Romania tended towards the dramatic. "That ain't my tale."

"The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day rise again," Aramis quoted. "No, it's The Holy Son's."

Porthos' smirk was taunting, and Aramis knew then that Porthos had every bit of information that he wanted, and he wasn't going to give it easily.

"It's Dracula's."

Aramis' tongue made a little clicking noise in his surprise at Porthos' frank honesty. "It's true then, you contain the beast that roams these woods."

 _With the devil's greatest creation as your master_ , Aramis' thoughts whispered, and his hand fell to his cross instinctually.

"You knew that already, that's why you're 'ere." Aramis inclined his head to the side, seeing no point in hiding what they both knew. Porthos' smile was wry, as if Aramis amused him. "They never killed me, got a few lucky shots, but I was out after a couple minutes – Drac's the one with the resurrection story."

Aramis leaned forward, intrigued not only by the knowledge that Porthos offered so freely, but by the eyes that raked him from head to toe and left shivers in their wake. "The myth that vampires were human once?"

Porthos shrugged, and something pained pinched at his expression for a brief blink of time. "It's no myth, I saw it 'appen."

Aramis didn't know how to answer the genuine belief in that statement, and wished for a moment that d'Artagnan was here, with his well of information. "You said nothing unnatural howled in these woods."

"Yeah, nothin' God 'imself didn't create."

Aramis hesitated, stunned. "You believe yourself created by God?"

Porthos extended both hands in weighing motions, lifting one for each part of the pairing. "It's about balances, right? Good, evil; light, dark; werewolf, vampire."

"You're the antithesis to Dracula?"

Porthos made a deliberative noise. "Ain't you s'posed to know all this, bein' a man of God, an' all?"

"This isn't exactly covered in the books," Aramis drawled, but it made sense, in a way. If the devil created Dracula, the law of averages would say that such evil needed balancing.

Why not a man who became a wolf when exposed to something as natural as moonlight? It was rather beautiful, in the way that nature often was.

Porthos laughed, the same rich, strangely familiar sound that it had been when they first met, and once again Aramis was struck with how  _normal_ it was. "Yeah, well, consider this your first lesson, then."

Aramis was not a stranger to darkness, neither by association or because he had known it well before this life, and he straddled the paths that the Church set him on. Aramis knew in his heart what evil felt like, because he had tasted it, on his own tongue of a morning, when he awoke from dreams of death.

He had often wondered whether the things he tracked felt the same, whether they knew of the stain on their souls – and if they didn't, what did that make him, to know of his?

Porthos bounced on the balls of his feet, his smile easy, his laughter carefree, he genuinely believed himself good. Aramis could see the inherent light; feel the chorus of notes that rang from one soul to another.

Aramis wanted to believe Porthos could be saved, but there was a line that could never be crossed.

"Tell me about the trap, and the baby."

For the first time, the humour dropped from Porthos' face, and Aramis saw the earthy rage of an animal tighten Porthos' jaw. "There're wolves in these fuckin' woods, an' they just left 'er there."

If the music of the moment had heightened, harsh dips and screeches, suddenly it softened, a gentle refrain that made Aramis sigh in relief. "You were trying to help."

"Her name's Anca, she was cryin'."

The veiled rage in Porthos' words was good, testament to the lightness within, but such things were never easy.

This place was rife with death.

"Did you kill the father?"

A sound ripped through the air, and it took Aramis a moment to realise the savage snarl was coming from Porthos. The little hairs lifted on the back of Aramis' neck when Porthos' lip rose to show gleaming teeth. "I did 'im a favour, I ended it quick."

Aramis frowned, but not for the reasons that Porthos expected. "As opposed to what?"

Porthos looked away to some point that Aramis couldn't see, and when he looked back, he was controlled once more, as if he had found an anchor. "We don't like abusers, 'ere."

Aramis locked onto the pronoun, wondering how much power Dracula had over Porthos, whether Porthos would help him, or hinder him in the Church's mission. "We?"

As if he had been expecting the question, Porthos replied immediately, "What d'you want, Aramis, why're you 'ere?"

Aramis blinked, startled, and struggled not to take a step backwards at the open suspicion in Porthos' tone. "I told you, I'm chasing tales."

"Your own tail."

Aramis didn't respond to the jeer, and focused instead on loosening what control a vampire had over a werewolf. "Don't you want to be released from your servitude?"

The grin was finally back, but Aramis felt as if he was being taunted rather than listened to. "Ah, this is 'bout Count Dracula. 'Ave you come to save me? 'E's nasty with the whip."

The orchestra fractured into confusion, a note played off-key as Aramis tried to understand what was happening. He had expected anger if the control was complete, gratitude if it wasn't; instead he had flippancy.

Something wasn't quite right, but Aramis couldn't put his finger on it.

Before Aramis could question further, Porthos' smile turned dismissive, as if he was done playing games. "Go 'ome, Aramis, an' take your pup with you."

"My—" Aramis' eyes narrowed. "You've been spying on me."

Porthos hooked his thumbs in his breeches, the picture of indolence. "Gorgeous guy like you, askin' questions, I got a right to be curious."

The laugh was stunned out of him. " _Rights?_ What rights do you have as the slave of Dracula?"

If there had been any flirtatious fire on Porthos' face, it burned out, closed off to him, and despite everything, Aramis was disappointed.

 _You are straying, my son,_ the Cardinal had said, and Aramis heard the bitter smile in his own thoughts, because it was the Church who had pushed him here, seeking answers.

Porthos heaved an aggravated sigh, dragging his fingers over his scalp but still Aramis didn't feel threatened. This wasn't the killing blow of a cat tired of its mouse, this was a man shooing a child that had overstayed its welcome.

It felt  _concerned._

"I'm tellin' you to drop it, alright? Just drop everythin', drop your weapons, drop your tail chasin', go an' live a proper life."

This time, Aramis' laugh was quieter, laced with cynicism, and when all Porthos did was tilt his head to the side in curiosity, Aramis bared a bit of his soul to a creature of darkness in the hopes that some good could come of all of this evil.

Like was drawn to like, after all; it was why Aramis spent as much time running from his past as he did chasing it.

"I was not a good man in a past life," Aramis smirked, "or this one. I am too tainted to do anything other than wield weapons and fight darkness."

Porthos scoffed but didn't say anything, and of all things to draw from his pocket, he took an apple, and began crunching on it like one not damned. Such a normal thing in this strange world. "So why's the pup with you, what'd he do?"

Aramis hesitated, his attention drifting to the trees that shrouded the town where d'Artagnan waited for him.

Protectiveness surged, the need to defend the boy against the shadows that Aramis knew so well. Perhaps he was as flawed as the Church painted him, perhaps he had strayed too far, but something in Aramis' gut told him that Porthos could be trusted.

The Church would cast him out for that, as they would have done for his relations with Jack but, as she had said,  _perhaps they were wrong._

D'Artagnan had said there was no light here, but Aramis could feel it on his face – it was just a different light.

"D'Artagnan killed a man," Aramis confided, and Porthos blinked, completely unmoved by a revelation that would have thrown anyone else. "It was revenge; he killed the man who murdered his father."

Porthos' frown took its time in coming. "An' 'e's damned for that, for justice?"

"Justice isn't found in murder—"

"Bullshit," Porthos interrupted flatly. "If evil ain't policed, it'll spread."

Aramis bristled, automatically defending that which had taken him in, had shown him guidance. "And you think you're doing that, vigilante justice by killing people like Petru?"

Porthos pierced Aramis with a very knowing look. "Would you?"

"I couldn't kill a man in good faith—"

"Aramis," Porthos said his name as if he knew him, as if he knew what Aramis truly felt, "that scum left 'is baby in the open so I might  _eat it_ , tell me that don't deserve death."

The accusation stung, that he was failing in his duty, when all he had been was loyal to the Church.

Aramis dragged his hat from his head, flinging his arm out in barely contained fury as he snapped, "It's not for me to decide!"

Porthos paused, chewing on his tongue before forcing a laugh, his gaze rapt on the cross swaying at Aramis' heaving cheat. "You ever think that God approves of some deaths, that p'raps some people are meant to die?"

Aramis inhaled sharply, wondering if Porthos knew more about him than he let on. – but if he did, they wouldn't be having this casual conversation. There would be gunfire, and blood, and Aramis would do his best to avoid that.

If the balance should tip, he had to be sure it tipped in his favour – in the Church's favour.

"God moves in mysterious ways."

Porthos' jaw tightened. "An' d'you blame your pup for what 'e did?"

Aramis frowned, wondering where Porthos was going with this, whether Porthos thought himself tainted for the lives he had taken; and so Aramis answered honestly. "No more than I can blame myself many times over."

Porthos looked at him sharply then, but settled after a slow nod. "We're all 'ere for a reason, Aramis, but how do you know what you're doin' is for the right one?"

Aramis' fingers trailed to his cross, as they always did in times of crisis, as if they had done so for centuries. "I have faith."

Porthos' smile was sad as he echoed Aramis' words from that morning. "So do I."

Aramis didn't move when Porthos did, but all he received was another sigh, and once again he was left to watch Porthos disappear into the trees with that same quiet grace belied by his bulk.

Aramis waited for a few minutes, tightening his straps and checking his weapons, if only for the sake of wasting time, and then he set off after Porthos. His mental compass was set to the point where Porthos had kept looking during their conversation, the place he seemed to take such strength from, and Aramis wanted to know what it was.

He walked for some time, the howls of the night seeming sometimes close and sometimes far away, as if taunting him, until he finally broke from the treeline.

The ground beneath his feet wobbled, and his toes kissed a cliff's edge.

A river rushed below, the water as raucous and fast as the beat of Aramis' heart, and when he could drag his gaze upwards, he saw what it was that Porthos kept looking for.

It was a castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not trying to paint Aramis as Solas here, but...  
> Come squeak with me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) at this fable and "the thief"!


	5. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the poems, they weren't sitting with me right, but Aesop's fables? Now, there are some wonderful morals for this dark and devious world. Pay close attention, Aramis, darling.

> Acquaintance softens prejudice.
> 
> \- _'The Fox and the Lion'_

"Castle Dracula, what do you want to know about it?"

"Imaginative name." Aramis brought the telescope to his eye again, d'Artagnan's weight against his side a warm comfort against the tearing breeze this high up in the town's watchtower. "How long has it stood there?"

"The castle's been there for centuries, but the rumours of Dracula only started about a hundred years ago."

Aramis took the telescope away for a moment, blinking back the painfully bright sunlight that they'd had to wait three days for to get a good view of the castle. "Only?"

D'Artagnan gave him an unimpressed look before squinting at the gothic creation again, his voice faraway as he thought aloud. "I mean, the books only say so much, and he's a vampire, maybe he's been there for longer and nobody knew."

"Maybe he killed everyone who did," Aramis murmured, the curve of the glass giving his vision a fish-eye effect, as if the castle bulged in the middle.

The creaking of the wood was the only noise for a while, before d'Artagnan broke the contemplative silence. "Would you say you were resurrected?"

Aramis flinched – he had heard that word too much, lately. "That's blasphemy."

D'Artagnan made a dismissive noise, as if Aramis was avoiding the subject. "How else do you explain your memories? Perhaps you die, you sleep, you wake up—"

"With no memories," Aramis interrupted. "That's no resurrection, it's… punishment."

"For what?"

Aramis felt the wave of gooseflesh flow over his skin, his voice dropping to a sombre level. "I don't know, but it must have been terrible."

D'Artagnan was as quiet as Aramis' soul; there was no music now, just an emptiness that Aramis had always felt.

Until he danced in the darkness.

"I looked into your resurrection theory for Dracula," d'Artagnan said finally, and Aramis mused for a moment whether d'Artagnan had looked into him, too. Aramis knew, though, that there was an absence, as if he had been wiped from the history books – or he was simply kept from the truth, from the light. "There is a history of someone dying and— well, coming back to life isn't quite right."

Aramis snorted without humour. "Coming back to undeath?"

"Something like that. It's a loss of the soul, the loss of life, without it…"

"Not dead, yet not alive," Aramis finished quietly, realising why he had empathised with the rage in that picture of Dracula. It was life, but life without meaning.

D'Artagnan absent-mindedly watched the townspeople below as they went about their daily tasks, finding normality in banality. "So why the need to drink blood?"

This, at least, Aramis could answer. "They have no heartbeat; they need something to run in their veins."

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. "It just seems pointless, why want to live if you don't feel alive?"

Aramis paused, uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you've no soul, there's no joy, there's no…  _music._ " D'Artagnan's mouth dropped, the boy ignorant of the sudden tightness in Aramis' chest as he still felt the memory of blunt fingers playing strums under his skin. "There's no  _food_! What's the point?"

"Maybe he lives to kill?" Aramis offered, but the thought of a song soaked in blood made him shudder.

D'Artagnan hummed dubiously, "I asked about that, did you know that the last handful of people that died here were all – um, Constance called them  _unsavoury._ "

"Unsavoury?"

"Well, there was Petru."

"Say no more."

"Exactly, then one of the watchman disappeared last month, but after they checked his house, they found out that he'd been selling missing children to slave traders."

Aramis whipped around, his fingers closing on d'Artagnan's shoulder as hope spiked dangerously for a beast contained in muscle. "What else?"

"One abused his wife, another stole," d'Artagnan's voice grew darker with distaste, "one even tortured animals for fun."

"And their bodies were never found?"

"Nope, like they'd been plucked from thin air – but with more blood and bits left behind. And that's not the only thing, a trader came into the inn last night, he had similar stories about the town over. It's almost like they're being harvested."

"Chosen," Aramis corrected quietly. "They're being chosen, very specifically."

Aramis whispered a prayer, his thumb digging into an edge of his cross, because it sounded as if Porthos had more control over his fate when he was far from Dracula's influence. If he could save Porthos from Dracula's clutches, he would, because Aramis could not easily give up on someone who seemed so similar to him.

Just because his inner darkness didn't manifest as a beast, did not make it any less familiar.

Aramis realised that he had lost d'Artagnan's attention at some point, and it was fixated on a figure below, one with hair like a fall of rubies.

Aramis' smile was small and tender for the boy he considered family. "I'm sure Constance would give you a hand with your, ah, pistol accuracy, you know."

D'Artagnan flushed. "They're betrothed."

Aramis grinned, clapping the boy on the back. "That's excellent news, a betrothal can be broken."

"No! She would lose face."

Aramis paused, frowning at the truly dejected look on the boy's face. "She would lose  _life_ , what's the point of living without love?" Aramis' attention was jerked back to the horizon, something glinting in the trees as the clouds shrouded the sun.

Cold swept over the land, and with it, Aramis shivered as he brought the telescope to his eye again. He immediately recognised Porthos, that same sturdy gait tempered with grace as he circled something that Aramis couldn't see.

A blade glittered in Porthos' hand, and Aramis tensed, leaning over the railing to peer behind the thick trees. A figure, seemingly wreathed in shadow, exploded from the brush, and darted away from Porthos' swipe.

Aramis almost thought that the person that Porthos was fighting had something wrong with his back, but the curve of the lens made it too difficult to see.

Aramis knew immediately what Porthos fought, and then pain lanced through his skull.

Aramis was already running down the stairs, d'Artagnan hot on his heels as he tried to think past the piercing ache. "It's the werewolf, he's fighting something – perhaps there is some good in him that can be saved. I have to help him."

As he was about to make for the woods, d'Artagnan caught at his sleeve, shaking his head. "I cabled Rome earlier. Even if you kill Dracula, the Cardinal orders you to destroy the werewolf as well."

Aramis halted, his gaze wild and disbelieving. "He isn't evil!"

"But they say he isn't human, either; he killed people."

Such a blunt statement, judgement in its most blind of forms, and with it, Aramis saw red. "So have I, does that make me evil, too?" Aramis grabbed for the boy, shaking his shoulders as he demanded, "Did they tell you how to kill me, am I your  _leap_ , d'Artagnan?"

"What? No! Aramis, I don't understand."

Aramis looked into confused, young eyes for one guilt-fraught moment and then he sighed sadly, his anger leaving him deflated. Aramis' grip turned apologetic as he touched the boy's chin and murmured, "Pray you never do."

 

* * *

 

Porthos prowled on quiet feet, only the faint cracks of tiny twigs giving his position away as he padded through the undergrowth, eyes peeled for movement.

The wildlife was deathly silent, terrified of the creature that prowled amongst them.

And it wasn't him they were scared of.

An alarmed peep gave Porthos just enough time to throw himself to the side, barely avoiding the quicksilver shadow that would have gone for his throat with absolutely no mercy.

A whisper of a laugh met Porthos' heavy breathing, but he didn't dare wipe the sweat from his brow until he was certain he couldn't get jumped. This was no simple game of cat and mouse, this was vampire and werewolf, and the loser would be bloodied by the end of it.

The sun emerged for a moment, bathing the trees in a golden glow, and Porthos relaxed, slumping against a tree to catch his breath. It was a heatless light, the day had dawned cold, but the blood that pumped under his skin was hot, and rich, and exactly what he was being hunted for.

He was moving again by the time the cloud cover returned, not bothering to hide his tracks now; he was panting loudly enough that the wolves in the next forest could probably hear him, let alone a creature that could detect the minute change in a heartbeat.

Anticipation had Porthos' head whipping from side to side, wondering why the fuck he had thought it a good idea to hide outside, where he had no wall to fight against, and the sun was as much a saviour as it was a strike down.

The silence had gone on for too long, and fear was a tantalising creep at the back of his throat, and he knew, he  _knew_ , this time, he was done for.

A blur of movement and then weight thudded into his back, thighs bracketing his ribs as two grips of solid steel clamped around his wrists and forced his face to the ground. Grass and dirt tickled his nose but all he could smell was saffron and sin.

Porthos growled instinctively, needing to escape, needing to fight back, but he was being pinned by the deadliest creature in the world, and when a crooked lip parted to have a canine catching at the soft shell of his ear, Porthos shivered.

"Beg," the being known as Dracula ordered in a scalding whisper, and Porthos' body convulsed in a hot rush of desire that battled against the rising rage of a restrained animal.

An inhuman twist of limbs, a snarl that was more laughter than anger, and Porthos gained the upper hand. His hands were still caught, but in turn he had fingers laced with his, and it was his own weight pinning a marble statue to the floor.

Soft, messy brown hair acted like a halo as it spread on the grass, and once again, for the hundred-thousandth time in as many days, Porthos was struck silent by the severe beauty in front of him.

"Athos," the name dropped from his lips like a prayer, and Porthos looked into blue eyes that he knew better than his own, and in them, he saw his soul.

Those blue eyes frowned when Porthos froze at a pleasant scent on the breeze, one of gunpowder, silks, and horses, more familiar than it should be given the brief time he had known it.

"What is it?"

"Aramis is comin'."

A sigh from the vampire caught between his legs. "You ever were one for a pretty face, Porthos."

"Course, why'd you think I chase you?"

The slash of a pleased smile was the last thing Porthos saw of him before he winged off into the tunnels, leaving Porthos to wait for a man that didn't seem to understand the danger he was in.

Athos didn't like change.

 

* * *

 

Aramis burst into the clearing with his heart hammering a swift song against his ribs, his palms clasping his guns as he prepared to take on the devil's greatest creation; prepared to make another decision, one that might have him straying further from the light, because he would not let another soul go gently into that good night.

Instead, all he saw was Porthos, one eyebrow raised as he leaned casually against a tree, looking for all the world as if he was just another creature of the forest.

"I came as fast as I could," Aramis panted, eyes darting over the trees.

Porthos roused himself and strolled over with that same long-limbed grace. "Why?"

Aramis hesitated, arms dropping slightly. "You were fighting with Dracula."

Porthos frowned for a moment, and then he laughed, a short, sharp burst of noise as he shook his head. "Sit down, Aramis."

"What happened, are you injured? I don't know enough about werewolf biology but if Dracula hurt you—"

"—We're alive 'cause of each other," Porthos interrupted as casually as if they had been discussing the change of the seasons.

Aramis hesitated, one finger primed near a trigger until Porthos folded his legs to sit on the ground, the picture of relaxed. After looking warily around, Aramis followed suit, his palm still clutching a pistol. "What do you mean?"

Porthos glanced up at the castle and sighed, as if he was doing something that he shouldn't. "Somethin' happened two-hundred years ago. The memories are hazy but 'e saved my life, an' in return, 'e lost his."

Something that looked like guilt, such crushing guilt, entered Porthos' eyes for a moment, and in the sunlight, they looked lighter, more reminiscent of the earthy nature of his soul, and the song it sang was mournful.

Aramis frowned, trying to reconcile the stories he had read to what he was hearing. "I don't understand, have you fought all this time? You said you were Dracula's opposite, the good to his evil."

Porthos winced, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. "Evil has some strong meanin's, but I think that was the point, yeah. Devil creates a vampire, so God creates a werewolf."

They were like opposites of the same coin, and it span faster with one either side, the balance always kept equal. It was God that gave Porthos claws, just as it was the Devil that gave Dracula wings. "You were supposed to end each other."

It made perfect sense, the moon's chill to sun's burn, and now all Aramis had to do was get Porthos on his side, free him of this misplaced sense of dependability between vampire and werewolf, have him quench the chaos that spread in Dracula's wake.

Finish God's plan, if not the entirety of the Church's, for Aramis would not let Porthos fall with Dracula. The Cardinal was wrong; he had to be, because Porthos wasn't evil.

Porthos' nod was more deliberative than agreeing. "We almost did in the beginnin'; I woke up with him leanin' over me, knowin' nothin' except my name an' how to kill." Porthos' eyes grew haunted. "That was muscle memory; I was someone else, before."

"But something of who you were must have remained," Aramis said quietly, a dreaded sinking feeling in his gut. "You couldn't kill him, could you?"

A bitter laugh tore from Porthos' throat. "Somethin' like that. He was misanthropic an' hated life, an' I was high on it, on livin'."

Aramis nibbled a lip, feeling as if he was missing something, some intangible thing that kept the two of them together, something that would help him end Dracula's reign once and for all. "Why didn't you just part ways?" Aramis' voice automatically fell into a softer pitch as he quoted, "Walk while you have the light, before darkness overtakes you."

"I couldn't." Porthos' smile was bemused. "I didn't know 'im, a part of me hated 'im, but I worried if 'e strayed for too long, an ache, here," he thumped his chest, "and even if I ran for miles, I'd finally pass out from exhaustion an' wake up with 'im in my arms."

"You were connected by the oath," Aramis murmured softly, and Porthos' smile changed, an amused thing, as if Aramis wasn't quite understanding what it was that Porthos was saying.

"P'raps, but it was just one of many, we'd made oaths to each other before an' since."

Aramis frowned, perturbed not only by the similarities of their stories, but of  _bonds_. "You remember them?"

"Not from before, just faint feelings, loyalty, longing," Porthos didn't look away as he said, "love."

Everything clicked into place and Aramis blinked once, twice, aware he was being scrutinised. "Those are strong oaths," he said finally, and when Porthos grinned, he felt as if he had passed some sort of test.

A trial of fire, and Dracula was going to drag them all into the pit.

"Stronger'n everythin' else, even death."

Aramis inhaled sharply, at once wondering at such a bond, and mourning for it, because Aramis knew how  _love_ between two dark souls worked, and it always ended in tragedy.

Aramis looked at a man with sunshine in his smile, and wondered how he had been tricked by the clouds.

"So, you're his…"

"Drac calls me 'is keeper."

Aramis' brows rose, at the nickname and that same unflinching honesty. All it did was make Aramis more convinced that Porthos needed saving before he became tainted by the evil he loved. _The man who walks in the dark does not know where he is going._  "He accepts your roles?"

"S'who we are, we've 'ad enough time to get used to it." Porthos looked away for a moment. "We've both sacrificed enough to get 'ere."

"Here?"

Porthos spread his hands, blunt fingertips upturned but Aramis felt only a hollow ringing under his skin. "To now, to livin', it's not an easy life."

 _What life_ , Aramis wanted to ask of the gentleness that glimmered in Porthos' eyes, and he wondered whether it was the beast that Dracula had charmed, and the man was simply controlled by both.

Aramis grieved for him, for the love that couldn't be, and saw something of himself in Porthos' misplaced affections. For hadn't he done the same, hadn't he thought he had loved those who had turned against him, just as they had turned away from the light?

Porthos loved a monster.

And that was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is revealed - as if you didn't all already know, clever things that you are.  
> Oh, also, I could definitely see that "Eventual Smut" tag fulfilled next chapter...?  
> [Tumblr](comehitherashes.tumblr.com)!


	6. To His Right Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya, older than mature cheese - but the longer the better! It's actually lengthier this time, too, and there's even some of that Porthathos smut I promised (calling all, calling all). For those of who were waiting, I'm sorry, I hope this makes up for it.

> Where one may live, another will starve.
> 
> \- ' _The Ass and the Grasshopper'_

For once, it was Porthos left in the clearing, left staring at the path Aramis had taken, left with the distinct knowledge that something was wrong.

The man was different, interesting, his lack of fear a pleasant surprise after so many years of pitchforks and fire. Porthos knew there was something that Aramis wasn't telling him – as if anything could surprise him anymore – but perhaps Aramis was shy.

Porthos knew Aramis was different, he knew it in his gut, in the way that his guard lessened when Aramis neared, the way that he felt a connection to the man that smelled like silk and sin.

The problem was who else smelled like that, who else he felt that connection to, and neither thing had ever happened before.

Athos would kill Aramis if he knew; it had been just the two of them for years, barely getting by as they tried to remain unnoticed.

 _Unnoticed_ , right, really easy in their condition.

The sun came out then, warm and soothing as Porthos turned his cheek into the light and sighed, tempted to ignore the ever-present tug on his heart and simply stretch out on the grass and nap.

Except that, as always, he found his gaze lifting to the horizon, to a spike of black rock lit to gleaming obsidian in the sunshine, and he was heading towards it before he had even realised.

How could he not? His soul was there.

It might be a little bruised, and it might be a little tainted, but it was his, and it was protected beyond all other things – rivalled only by his heart, which was held by a being that had killed often over it.

Porthos' feet knew the path home, his toes finding holds and his fingers digging into the earth as he scaled the cliff face that separated them from the town. It was useful having the extra strength that the beast lent him, and not just to wrangle with a natural danger, but a made one.

When Porthos padded inside, Athos was standing by the window, scarcely one foot away from the light that would burn the pale smoothness of his skin – but they both knew that Porthos would break his own bones in order to shield him from it.

In fact, he had done.

Porthos' feet scuffed the floor as he walked closer, little reminders that for all he was feared throughout the land, he was the blundering fool to Athos' inherent elegance.

Porthos slipped his arms around Athos' waist, his chin resting on a tense shoulder as he dragged Athos further from the sunshine. Athos allowed it for a step, and then he held firm, gaze still fixed on the window, stubborn to a fault. "The townspeople will turn on him if they discover your illicit meetings."

Porthos snorted, contenting himself with covering Athos' hands with his, hiding his exposed flesh with his own, calming the anxiety that always ran like little rivers where Athos was involved. "That's 'cause they're sheep."

A bit harsh, perhaps, but Porthos had spent this life protecting them, and all they did was try to kill him for it. So many times had he roamed the woods, warning away the bears and the wolves, even going so far as to scare off the bandits that preyed on the villages.

And what did they give him in return? Bullets, some laced with silver so they burned and scarred, until he was forced to return to Athos a bleeding wreck, and push the pain aside to stop Athos from taking out his fury on those who had hurt him.

And still Porthos protected them, because it was what he did, it was in his genetic makeup, far beneath the silver scars and the beast, to the essence of who Porthos was.

Had always been.

There was no change in Athos' expression, no indication of the feelings buried within his own shell, just a stark, "I won't allow him to talk about us."

Porthos scowled, his mind only half on the deadly threat, the other half was thinking about a man who held a gun in one hand and a cross in the other.

And his _smile_ …"Leave 'im to me, I said."

A slow blink was Porthos' answer, Athos' head tilting minutely to the side, not quite a baring of his throat, but a gesture of thought. "I did, and yet he's still here."

Porthos huffed an exasperated noise. "Yeah, well, 'e's persistent."

"You like him."

It was said immediately, a statement, and Porthos weighed his response before answering. Defence had long been his driving force, and whether it was of squalling babies or weapon-wielding men, Porthos knew that he had to tread carefully.

There was enough blood spilled in their lives already, without the need to prompt Athos into a jealous rage – not that Porthos was opposed to such a blatant display of affection.

"I like you," he purred into Athos' ear, nose nudging at the soft hairs behind it.

"Stop changing the subject," Athos ordered, but Porthos heard the faintest change to his voice, a slight rasp that hadn't been there before. "He is dangerous."

Porthos frowned, but continued to mouth at Athos' earlobe. "He's just a human."

"Humans outnumber us, they hunt us, and they hate us." Athos turned in Porthos' arms, his blue eyes serious, his beauty still severe, and Porthos held his breath at the merciless tightness to a soft, crooked lip. "I will let him live, for now, but if he threatens you…"

It was a dire warning and a heartfelt declaration in one, and a hungry keen rumbled from Porthos' throat at affection hidden by sharp teeth.

"Don't toy with 'im," Porthos chided, but although his body was vibrating with barely restrained adrenaline, he completely froze when Athos' fingers touched his chin, a fine shiver crossing his skin as if Athos controlled him body and soul.

He did.

"I'll toy with who I wish." A simple statement from a master of death. "You, for example."

Porthos growled, but it was a happy noise, and Athos' smile at Porthos' utter stillness was a satisfied, commanding thing.

It said, _mine_.

Athos released him after pressing a gentle, deliberately taunting kiss to Porthos' lips, knowing full well that Porthos' beast would snarl at the control, at the pure reign that Athos held over him.

The movements reversed, but when it was Porthos' fingers gripping Athos' chin, all the tension left Athos' body in a quiet exhale of relief.

 _Surrender,_ Porthos' primal brain supplied, and Porthos closed his eyes against the overpowering urge to claim him, again and again, as was his right, as was his duty as the keeper of the world's greatest predator.

Porthos was aware of every millimetre they touched, of where his nails were pressed almost painfully into Athos' skin, of where his hands spanned the dormant – and oh-so-fragile – wing muscles, of where he bared his teeth instinctually over Athos' bared neck.

"Do it," Athos whispered, and although Porthos tried to hold himself back, he was helpless to the arch of Athos' spine, to the smooth expanse of his throat, to the order and submission in one.

Porthos' groan was involuntary as he bit into the soft flesh, the skin parting under his teeth, but only the slightest trickling of blood answered, and despite everything, the concern swept through, as it always did when it got this far. "You gotta feed," he muttered, tongue laving over the mark, _his_ mark, _his._

Athos didn't answer, simply arched further, offering himself in a way that only Porthos could take, and only Porthos could end with one mistaken swipe.

Because the bite wound didn't heal, and Porthos had to drag Athos' forehead to his before he made it worse, their harsh breaths intermingling as they both forced themselves to come to terms with natures thrust upon them.

Two hundred years and still they struggled, for safety, for acceptance, for _life._

The love came all too easily.

Sharp teeth scored Porthos' lip and Athos sucked greedily at the drops, each pull sending desire twisting dizzily through Porthos' veins, as if Athos replaced his blood with ambrosia, as if Athos _was_ a gift from the gods – when they both knew it was the other way around.

"Give in," Athos whispered, voice husky and wet, lips swollen and slick, and looking like every one of Porthos' fantasies come to...

 _Life_.

Once again it was passed between them, strengthening one and weakening the other, a dance they had danced since the dawn of this life. Because as Porthos kept Athos safe from the cruelties of the sun, Athos did the same with the moonlight.

Porthos did not like who he became when the night sang its sweet song.

He could almost hear it now, but this one was slightly different, darker and hungrier, and yet it called to the same dangerous parts of him. It came from Athos' throat, giving Porthos the means of his own destruction.

"I can't, sweet."

_I won't._

Athos' frustrated groan had Porthos growling, because it was coupled with a push of Athos' hips against his, with fingers that hooked into Porthos' shoulders and tugged him downwards until their lips met in a crash of teeth and tongues. Porthos' heart beat double-time to make up for the one long fallen silent, the one that he claimed he had stolen.

Porthos indulged under a wash of lust, relaxing just the slightest amount until his movements turned a little rougher, and Athos' smile was victorious when Porthos yanked Athos against his front and held him there.

He knew he was doing what Athos wanted, but they both knew it wasn't enough, it wasn't complete, because Porthos could never completely let himself go.

He was too scared of what would happen if he did.

Athos wouldn't break, he was strong, he was deadly, but Porthos constantly lunged at the leash of hurting him immeasurably. The wound on Athos' neck still hadn't healed, and yet a cut he could have off of a knife would close within seconds.

Porthos kissed his way down Athos' throat, pausing to gently kiss the torn flesh, his eyes closing at Athos' pained hiss.

It was pointless to whisper apologies, because Athos would only demand he be faster, harder, rougher, but the guilt was like a weight on Porthos' shoulders.

Once again, Porthos lost himself in the torture of tantalising freedom, of release whispered in lightning quick fingers and bloodied kisses, harsh breaths and reverent pleas, and Porthos clawed through yet another mattress as he glimpsed Heaven in shockingly pale blue eyes.

And at the end, when Athos dozed against his chest, sleep easing his frown until Porthos felt as if he held an angel within his arms, Porthos carefully checked Athos over for injuries, hating himself for every bruise, even though he knew that Athos would stroke them with a sly smile tomorrow.

He still felt at fault, guilt an itchy weight in his throat, for one day, he might go too far and do exactly what he was designed to do.

Kill the world's greatest killer, and kill himself in the process.

 

* * *

 

The river rumbled in Aramis' ears as he looked over the gorge to the castle beyond, once again facing that trick of the light where everything looked more menacing now that the sun had set.

It had been an awkward return to the town, d'Artagnan anxiously waiting with a pistol-wielding Constance at his side – she was definitely the one protecting him, at this rate – and Aramis had told them that he hadn't found anything.

The guilt had been acute, but Aramis knew they wouldn't understand damning one soul but saving another, not when they believed Porthos to be a monster.

Instead, he and d'Artagnan had spent the rest of the day researching, scowling over the repeated legends of Dracula's immortality.

"This can't be right, the crosses and the holy water must work, vampires are evil," d'Artagnan said irritably when they found yet another entry of a failed attack on Dracula.

"Yes, perhaps they were wrong," Aramis agreed absent-mindedly, before realising what he had said, and faced with the uncomfortable thought of the two things he was meant to kill, Aramis stated adamantly, "He will fall, d'Artagnan, he must."

"Let me come with you."

"No," Aramis replied immediately, meeting d'Artagnan's stubborn pout with a determined expression. "It's too dangerous."

"I'm not a child."

"You need to keep the people, _Constance_ , safe," Aramis insisted, feeling guilty for manipulating the boy's feelings, but Aramis had his own duty to the people, to d'Artagnan, and now, to Porthos.

Which was why Aramis was standing alone as he stared down at the rushing river, and the countless weapons and coiled rope around his waist seemed heavier than they should be.

He was doing this alone, as always, but this time he had to convince one half of a damned pairing to step away, step aside, so Aramis could plunge a stake into the other's heart – one that Porthos thought he held, thought could still love.

Aramis sighed, staring up at the skies for guidance, asking the question he always asked.

_Why does it hurt?_

The wind picked up, whipping at his clothes, forcing him forward a step until he once again stood at the eager precipice that had been calling him for so long.

Perhaps this was what it was all leading to, this very edge, this very decision.

He wanted to jump, but that would be suicide, the drop would kill him, it always did, and so he had to slowly and carefully lower himself over the edge, the movements harder for the care he had to take. Aramis was sweating by the time he reached the bottom, tempting fate with every loose rock, and he still had to climb the other side.

It loomed like an indomitable wall, the urge to climb nowhere near as strong as the urge to jump.

The leash he had felt around his neck since the Church had found him seemed to double in weight, seemed to tug until it pulled at his throat, closing on his windpipe until he choked.

Why, why was it pulling him back from completing his mission?

It was the same desperation as asking why it hurt to kill those deemed evil, as Porthos was. As always, his questions went unanswered, his pleas ignored and his memories unfound.

It was as if he was only living half a life.

Aramis flinched when a few pebbles rained down beside him, but when he looked up, he could only see the crumbling wall glowing in the moonlight, highlighting handholds as if showing him the path.

Nature, it seemed, wanted him to continue.

It stayed with him as he climbed, trembling toes wedged into the bedrock, frayed fingers scrabbling for purchase. The drop growing ever larger as he inched his way upwards, but the moon stayed with him, comforting glow on his back even as his arms began to ache.

Roots began to poke at him as he neared the top, the trees helping his climb when the earth began to give way beneath his weight.

And then it gave way completely, until all that held him up was his slippery hold on a root that quivered when he tugged.

As if damning his fall and leaving him in the darkness he knew so well, the clouds covered the moon just as his fingers slipped, and he knew he would fall like the legends of old, and perhaps this time he would not wake up at all.

A heated grip snatched at his hand, and then another slammed across his shoulder blades, adrenaline and warmth spreading like an aching muscle across his back as he was yanked painfully onto level ground, grass staining his cheek as he clung to the dirt.

To the dirt and to the muscled arm still attached to his.

"Shit," Porthos panted, "you 'ad to choose the brightest night to scale the fuckin' gorge, didn't you?"

Aramis shuddered with half-taken breaths, staring at the man whose attention was focused solely on the skies, at the dim circle of light behind the clouds.

The shadows had saved him, both being and shade.

Aramis crawled to his knees and chanted prayers of thanks under his breath, but it wasn't until he kissed his cross that Porthos dragged a hand down his face and muttered, "Athos is gonna kill me."

"Athos?"

The name left Aramis' mouth on a whisper, confusion lining his brow, and Porthos' expression only mimicked it as he watched Aramis' lips shape the name again.

"You didn't know 'is name?"

"No, I did," Aramis said slowly, wracking his brain for when he had heard it. Perhaps the Cardinal had mentioned it, or d'Artagnan during their research.

Except that he remembered saying it, and he remembered saying it often.

 _Even demons have names_ , he had told Constance, but he hadn't meant Dracula. Dracula wasn't supposed to have another name, a true name, a name his lover called him.

Van Helsing had one, too.

"Aramis?"

Aramis blinked rapidly, suddenly lost when it took a moment to see Porthos reaching for him, as if to reassure him, check on him, but then there was a snarl of sound and he was gone.

Aramis dazedly turned into the moonlight that now bathed the cliff edge, and had to squint into the trees to see a shape hovering at its limits.

"Aramis, you all right?"

"Yes," Aramis answered but added in a pitch too quiet to hear, "No. I don't know."

There was something he wasn't quite realising, but for the life of him, for all of his lives, he didn't know what it was.

Up high again, the wind caught at his clothes, pulling at the myriad weapons leashed to his body, and with it came a different sort of realisation.

"Why would Dracula kill you for helping me?"

Porthos snarled again, but this one was one more of a disgruntled mutter, one that Aramis didn't quite catch and only prompted him to ask, "Why _did_ you help me?"

"I wasn't gonna let you fall," Porthos said defensively, but that last word sounded strangled for some reason, and even Porthos massaged his own throat as if surprised by it.

Aramis stepped closer, stepped into the shadows, marvelling as to whether Porthos also felt as if something was on the tip of his tongue, and it tasted like wine and wonder.

Dark – so very dark – eyes stared back at him, black as pitch but belonging to a creature who had saved him, as if God himself had put him there, put dark eyes in a being of light.

Aramis felt the strangest urge to reach out and touch him, to check him over for injuries even though he was the one who had almost fallen. His fingers itched for needle and thread, for Porthos' skin against his own, to breathe deeply of his woodsy scent.

How did he know that?

_Wine and wonder._

There was no smile on Porthos' face, just something unfathomable, and something hungry.

Aramis faced a werewolf on his home territory, a werewolf who belonged to a vampire body and soul – but he couldn't believe that, not when Porthos was here, with him, instead.

Instead of Athos.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against a sharp pain in his temples, and pointed at the raw cut on Porthos' lip, fresh and tender. "Did Dracula do that?"

If Aramis had any doubt that there was anything between master and slave, it evaporated when Porthos touched the wound almost reverently, his mouth curving very slightly before firming.

"Now's not a good time, Aramis. Go 'ome."

What was Porthos trying to hide from him – or, perhaps, more likely, what was he trying to hide from Dracula?

"I nearly fell, and now you want me to go back?"

Porthos glanced over his shoulder at the castle before giving him a distracted smile, head jerking at a copse of trees a little way away. "There's a rope bridge, spans the gorge. Jus' hide the pulley on the other side."

"Not keen on visitors?" Aramis teased, but all it earned him was a frown, so he bowed his head and turned away with a tip of his hat. He needed Porthos on his side for this, and alienating him now was not going to help his cause.

"Aramis?" Porthos called out, tone laden with concern. "Stop, now, 'fore you get hurt."

Something odd squirmed in his chest, something that made him feel cared for, when he wasn't sure he ever remembered feeling it before. Not in this life, at least. "I'm accustomed to a bit of pain, Porthos, especially in the pursuit of truth."

"The truth ain't always nice."

"It never is, but I'm used to that too," he answered with tired amusement, and some pained sympathy raced across Porthos' face, and Aramis almost thought he saw Porthos reach out for him, but the moonlight kept him prisoner.

As Dracula did.

Aramis knew what it was to have a leash, and he would free Porthos if it killed him.

It felt as if it had happened once already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may already have seen where I'm going with this, and it's why it took SO LONG, because totally alternate universes complete with religion and science issues can give ya such a crick in the neck. I know what's going to happen, it's just putting into words, but it'll happen, I promise.


End file.
